“The pen didn’t delay
And the fingers didn’t falter
To bleed emotions all the way
From hidden heart to blank paper.
For everyone to see
For some to feel and explore
For some to mock and judge
And for some to ignore.
Now the poet wondered how
He had killed himself many times
To breathe a little bit of life
In those still words, into his poems.
The poet wondered if the pen would delay
Or if somehow these fingers would falter
As the question was lingering in his way
And he wanted to shape an answer.”
©sakshi~the escapist, 2017
Image: Courtesy of Pixabay